


Guide You Home

by conniebeauchamp



Category: Casualty (TV)
Genre: F/F, I've not included the specifics of what happened just that it HAPPENED if that makes sense., there's nothing explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conniebeauchamp/pseuds/conniebeauchamp
Summary: Alicia has a secret, one that's haunting her. Bea makes it her mission to find out - and to support her friend, no matter what it is. /TW for Alicia's current storyline.





	Guide You Home

A loud knock on the singular glass pane of her office door forces Connie Beauchamp to sit up swiftly, simultaneously sliding the fast scan device into her top drawer before belatedly calling, ‘enter’, to the waiting guest.

She’s almost surprised to see the redhaired F1 doctor, Bea, entering her office. After the brief interaction at the start of Connie’s return to work, she can’t recall the last time she spoke to her most junior member of staff – which is perhaps a poor reflection on her own managerial style, post-recovery. Or, perhaps it’s a sign that she’s followed her doctor’s advice, and delegated some of the less essential roles of a Clinical Lead.

“Doctor Kinsella,” Connie says, plastering a smile that she isn’t really feeling onto her lips. “What can I do for you on this rainy Tuesday morning?”

Bea looks hesitant, and Connie has to resist the urge to prompt her to speak more quickly. For once, she has all the time in the world; she may as well _try_ to see vaguely approachable. As she waits, Connie decides to readjust the pecking order in her mind; Doctor Kinsella is the _second_ most junior doctor – the obnoxiously knowledgeable Edward McAllister takes that position, as the latest to join the department.

“Er, sorry to disturb you,” Bea begins slowly, and Connie has to physically restrain herself from clapping the doctor actually starting the conversation. “I just…didn’t think we’d gotten off on the best foot, you know, after the whole resignation and then non-resignation stuff, so…yeah.”

“So this is a formal introduction?” Connie clarifies, a smirk slipping onto her lips. There’s only so far that she can resist the urge to retort to basic comments, after all. “Doctor Kinsella, whilst that is a lovely thought, ‘so yeah’ does not usually constitute part of such a discussion. Or, at least, it certainly does not with me.”

Bea blushes, and takes a step towards the desk, proffering her hand. “Apologies, Mrs Beauchamp. I know you must be terribly busy.”

“Not at all,” Connie says, a half-lie at best, a blatant disregard for any form of the truth at best. “However…was there anything else that you wished to discuss?”

She can sense the indecision in the F1, and almost smiles at the situation: how much information does the newcomer want to admit to the department’s lead consultant? And what sort of relationship should an F1 even _have_ with the Clinical Lead? After all, Ethan Hardy’s style, from what she’s heard, was alienate the staff one day, try and be their best friend the day after.

“Er…just that…I’ve swapped mentors, so that I’ve got Doctor Munroe. I’m not sure why, or if you even need to know, but thought it might be best to tell you so that there’s a paper trail…” Bea babbles, continuing until Connie holds a hand up to signal that she’s heard enough.

“Very well,” Connie replies, leaning back slightly in her hair and folding her hands over her stomach. This still feels wrong, strange, as though the movement will move the stitches which were present for so long and cause a bleed. “I’ll make sure that the system is aware of the mentoring change. Now, if that’s everything, have a lovely shift.”

“Thanks, Mrs Beauchamp,” Bea says, before standing awkwardly for a moment. “Erm…bye?”

As her office door opens and then closes in quick succession, Connie laments the manners of today’s youth, and makes a mental note to add professionalism to the department’s next CPD event.

..

“Everything alright, Doctor Kinsella?”

Bea half-jumps as she hears Alicia’s voice behind her, and she fights the urge to feel guilty for not treating patients from the very first second of her shift.

“Erm yeah, fine thanks,” Bea replies, leaning over on the workstation to grab a patient file. Louise McCory, 42, heart palpitations – should be interesting.

“Yeah?” Alicia pushes, sounding strange. Or, not strange rather, but more like her normal self. “Not every day that you get called into see Mrs B, though, is it?”

Bea feels a blush rising in her cheeks, aware that her cheeks turn to the colour of her hair faster than she can manage to utter the word _embarrassed_. It’s a problem she’s faced since she was a small child, though has certainly been more noticeable since living in England, where there seems to be significantly fewer ginger people than in Ireland. Or perhaps that’s a stereotype that she’s herself continuing to perpetuate.

“Um, no, actually I went to see her to say hello,” Bea explains, her gaze drifting from Alicia’s face to her mentor’s crooked badge. “Um, your badge is…never mind,” she trails off, as Alicia rolls her eyes.

“One thing you don’t do is go and see Mrs B for a little chat,” Alicia warns, though her joking tone takes away some of the severity of her suggestion. “I’ve never seen someone work harder than her – with less time spent idly gossiping. Like we are now.”

“A good point well made,” Bea jokes back, but there’s no response.

Lifting her gaze from the patient file back to Alicia, she’s shocked to see that her mentor’s face is drained of all colour, her attention distracted, her posture shifting from confident doctor to…a scared child? It’s a series of changes that Bea’s noticed in her mentor – sod it, her _friend_ – recently, though usually, it’s one or two. Never all of them together.

“Alicia?” Bea says her friend’s name, but there’s no response. Instead, she turns to see where Alicia’s gaze is directed – and sees, once again, Eddie McAllister.

The movement seems to have jolted Alicia into remembering where she is and who she’s with, and as Bea turns back, there’s a false smile plastered on Alicia’s face.

“Well, best not be standing here chatting or Mrs B will have both of our heads – and there’ll be no one to pay the mortgage!” Alicia jokes, before disappearing at a pace faster than Bea thought possible.

Without turning away from Eddie, who hasn’t noticed her gaze yet, Bea runs through the strange things that she’s seen Alicia doing, or feeling, when she thinks nobody is looking – or when she sees the newest of the F1s. The sudden silence, lapses of judgement, fits of temper. The lost, pained look which appears at the most random of times.

The notion that something’s _wrong_ , something’s happened which has clearly destroyed Alicia in some way.

Something which likely involves Eddie McAllister.

With a fresh burst of determination – something which is _not_ a residual caffeine buzz leftover – Bea Kinsella decides to make finding out what’s wrong with Alicia her goal for the week. Well, her goal alongside not getting fired.

…

“Doctor Keogh…” Bea begins, before trailing off. She’s lost her nerve at the start of the conversation; because, really, what right does she have to be asking other members of staff (let alone _Consultants_ ) about something that might not even be a work thing?

“Yes?” Doctor Keogh’s response is curt and to the point, as most of his communication is.

“I just…” Bea continues, trying to make herself ask the question that she’s desperate to. “If you’re worried about someone…someone you work with, I mean…what do you do?”

This gets a reaction that she never expected to get from Dylan Keogh, though she has to admit that the fact that she told the whole department that he was an alcoholic probably makes him a little suspicious talking to her about personal problems. The other reason that she gets any form of reaction – let alone a raised eyebrow, direct and sustained eye contact _and_ an almost interested expression – is likely the fact that they’re alone in the breakroom , and there’s nobody around to interrupt or misconstrue the situation.

The silence builds until, finally, Dylan breaks eye contact and snorts. “You mean that you’d like to know how to discuss a sensitive issue with someone _without_ announcing the matter to the entire department?” It’s clear that he knows that that’s what she wants, but Bea can’t tell whether he’s being flippant or does seriously still harbour a grudge against her lapse in judgement.

“Um…yeah, about that, Doctor Keogh, I just…” Bea trails off as Dylan starts talking again.

“Bea, it’s fine. I’m glad that we’re having this conversation now, even simply as a learning curve,” Dylan replies, almost – but not quite – gently. “I take it that it’s a latent issue you’re worried about – that it isn’t something necessarily affecting someone’s work performance?”

Bea doesn’t need his clarification on the meaning of latent, but decides that this is the least of her problems.

“Yeah, it isn’t really affecting their time at work – but it’s clear that they’re not happy. I’m just…really concerned for them, you know? But I don’t want to overstep my boundaries, you know, as an F1 and after everything before…”

Dylan doesn’t reply immediately, but the expression on his face is reminiscent of the one Bea sees when he’s faced with a particularly challenging case.

“Making sure that they know you’re there for them helps,” he finally replies. “Keeping an eye on their work, too, just in case they are affected here. Don’t act as if you know everything, and don’t presume that they will want to tell you – even if they tell someone else, it’s because they felt supported by you. That should do it.”

“Thank you, Doctor Keogh.”

Bea doesn’t quite know whether she should stay in the staffroom or go after this strangely non-clinically focused discussion with her superior, and decides ultimately on the latter. On her way towards the door, however, she’s paused by a parting remark in Dylan’s gravest tone.

“But Bea? If this…person, if they don’t want to talk…you’re not necessarily going to be able to make them. Don’t consider it a sign of defeat if they don’t speak to you – that’s all I’m saying.”

…

Standing at the workstation, waiting for her patient’s test results (though one test he does _not_ need is one to confirm that he’s the rudest person that Bea’s treated this week), Bea catches a glimpse of Alicia heading into the breakroom. There’s an expression on her face that Bea usually associates with someone being hungover – the desperate need to be sick, or at least feeling like it, underpinning everything. But, to her knowledge at least, Alicia didn’t go out last night. And even if she did, five minutes before the end of her shift is unlikely to be the time that she suddenly wants to vomit.

“ _Bea_!” Eddie McAllister says – shouts, really – causing her to jump.

“Oh, what?” Bea replies, distractedly.

“The lab phoned – your patient’s test results are within the normal range,” Eddie answers, an almost perplexed expression on his face. It’s a change from the usual arrogant expression which usually adorns his features, though not necessarily a welcome one. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bea says, her attention still focused on the breakroom door. Perhaps, if she shifts slightly, she’ll be able to see inside. Unlikely though. “Thanks for getting the test results.”

“You’re clearly distracted, Bea. You might as well tell me what it is.” The perplexed expression has gone, instead replaced by something that appears to be almost…caring. Surely not, especially from _Eddie_ _McAllister_?

“Look, it’s nothing,” Bea insists. “It’s just…Alicia doesn’t quite seem herself at the moment. I just want to make sure that she’s okay.”

The expression disappears from Eddie’s face, a more neutral one appearing in its place. “I think she’s fine. Hasn’t killed anyone, I mean, has she?” His attempt at a joke – a poor one at best – disgusts Bea, but she decides not to mention it anyway.

“Like I say, it’s nothing – probably just a bad week,” Bea tries to backtrack, wondering just how quickly she could disappear without it being considered rude.

“Why do you care so much about her, anyway?” Eddie asks, his tone increasingly suggestive. “Is it because you _like_ her?”

Bea snorts. “Of course I like her. We live together, after all. I’m just a little bit worried about her.”

Eddie sidles around the workstation so that he’s standing in front of her, rather than next to her. Setting his forearms on the top, he leans his hand into it, almost as if he’s…pretending to be a young girl. Which, in Bea’s eyes, is worrying.

“No, silly,” Eddie continues, as though he’s speaking to someone ten years younger than him. Or perhaps more. “I mean _like like_. You know. Like how Charlie likes Duffy?”

Thankfully, for once in her life, the almost immediate blushing response doesn’t occur, and Bea has to take ten seconds to stare at Eddie to fully process the meaning of his words. Which, unfortunately, are more overtly homophobic than she had expected from him. Something that’s probably her fault – for underestimating how much of a dickhead a privileged white man can be.

“You mean because I’m a lesbian?”

Eddie blushes and, for a moment, looks almost uncomfortable. “Um, well, yeah.”

It takes everything in Bea to keep her fist by her side, rather than aiming it at Eddie’s forehead. Instead, with a deep breath and a not thought out plan of action, she says, “Eddie, you live with Ben, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And you’ve lived with him for, what, a couple of years now?”

“Since second year,” Eddie confirms. “I just…why do you care about Ben?”

“Would you say that you _care_ for Ben?” Bea pushes, her tone flat and sharper than broken glass. “Like, if he was upset or in a bad situation, you would sort him out? You’d care that he wasn’t feeling himself?”

“Obviously,” Eddie replies. “I’m not completely heartless, you know.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Bea shoots back, sarcasm brimming. “In that case, do you _like like_ Ben?”

Spluttering, Eddie replies, “Of course not!”

Narrowing her eyes, Bea takes a step forwards, so that their foreheads are almost touching. “But you _care_ about him,” she mutters. With her unclenched hand, she grabs a fistful of Eddie’s scrub top, pulling him closer into the workstation. “Just because someone is gay or a lesbian and lives with someone _of the same sex_ and _cares_ for them – it doesn’t make them interested in them as anything other than a friend! Casual ‘how to stop being homophobic’ lesson for you, Doctor McAllister.”

As she drops his scrub and walks away, Bea decides that it’s essential to scrub off the taint – and the latent homophobia – of Eddie McAllister before she returns to her equally unpleasant patient.

…

Their schedules seem to be almost complete opposites for the next three days – when Bea’s at work, Alicia’s at home, sleeping; when Alicia’s on a night shift, Bea’s asleep. Well, Bea assumes that Alicia’s sleeping during the day – but with her current mentality (and seeming ability to drink all hours of the day), that’s perhaps an assumption too far.

However, by the Friday, they both happen to have a day off together: Bea as preparation for a nightshift, Alicia as part of her return to a day shift schedule.

At a little after midday, Bea emerges from her room and heads downstairs to see a vacant, almost haunted, expression on Alicia’s face. She’s cupping a mug which, to Bea’s untrained eye, looks to have gone long cold and, despite Bea being right in front of her, she hasn’t registered her housemate’s arrival. It’s as if Alicia’s reliving some nightmare – whether real or imagined, Bea intends to find out.

“Hey, Alicia,” Bea says gently, gradually approaching Alicia so as not to alarm her. “It’s just me, Bea,” she continues, her tone as soothing as possible as Alicia jumps and grabs at her wrist, stopping Bea in her tracks.

“Oh yeah, hey Bea,” Alicia replies, a semblance of herself buried amongst the scared undertone of her voice. “Just got a bit distracted, that’s all…” She sets the mug down on the table, the contents sloshing over the side of the cup.

“Alicia,” Bea begins hesitantly, taking a seat next to her housemate at the table: close enough to offer support to her if she needs it and to make it seem less like an official chat, far enough away that she doesn’t crowed the clearly anxious woman. “Alicia…you’re going to tell me that everything’s fine again, I know you are. Though it’s quite clear that it isn’t. You’re worried all the time, stressed and on the edge, and sometimes, at work, it’s like you’ve seen a ghost…you can tell me anything, you know, I won’t judge or even say anything if you don’t want me to. I can just _listen_ , so that you don’t need to keep it inside.”

“I’m fine,” Alicia says, too quickly. “I’m fine,” she repeats, though Bea thinks that she’s trying to convince herself, more than anything else. “I don’t need to talk about it.”

It’s the first time that Alicia has admitted – or even hinted – that there’s something wrong, and Bea decides to press on, albeit gently.

“But do you _want_ to talk about it?” Bea prompts, keeping her training of how to deal with vulnerable patients in the forefront of her mind. Don’t ask leading questions, make sure that they have the lead in the conversation, silence isn’t necessarily a bad thing if they’re thinking. “You can talk to me about anything…”

“Yes, I know, thank you, Bea, you’ve said that more times than I can count!” Alicia explodes, standing up suddenly. Her movement knocks her chair over, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she just stands there, shaking involuntarily, her arms wrapped around herself.

Bea stays seated, assuming that Alicia’s going to run off to her room and only emerge once the F1 has gone to work. Which, to Bea, is fine; they’ve made progress of a sort. They can try again tomorrow, through the sleep deprivation.

But then, unexpectedly, Alicia turns to her, near-silent tears streaming down her cheeks, and whispers, “I don’t want to be alone…”

Within a second, Bea’s standing, her arms around Alicia’s neck, pulling her close. For what seems the first time in weeks, Alicia responds, wrapping herself around Bea’s slight frame, holding on for dear life. To Bea, it’s as if Alicia’s finally found a safe place – finally feels comfortable, relaxed, able to breathe.

…

It takes three cups of tea – the making of which is the only time that their skin breaks apart for the entire afternoon – for Alicia to start to tell Bea the events of that night, five weeks ago.

Inside, Bea’s seething, ready to punch Eddie and anyone associated with the disgusting dirtbag.

Externally, she’s calm, collected, supportive of her brave friend, who finally felt as though she could tell someone about the most intrinsic violation of herself.

They spend the rest of the afternoon, Alicia wrapped in Bea’s arms, Bea murmuring the only words that Alicia wants to hear for now, “it’ll all be okay.”

…

She phones in sick to her nightshift, having to speak to an impatient and irritated Connie Beauchamp to verify that she really does have D&V and isn’t able to come in this evening.

“Suspiciously late to get ill when your shift starts in three hours, Doctor Kinsella,” comes Connie’s curt response. “I suppose that means you won’t be in tomorrow, either.”

“Er, yeah, no I won’t be,” Bea replies, her attention distracted by watching Alicia making another round of tea in the kitchen. “Sorry, Mrs Beauchamp. I know this puts you in a predicament.”

Connie sniffs. “Well, I’ll have to see if Doctor Munroe can come in.”

“No,” Bea says, too quickly – shit. She’s probably made Connie suspicious and, knowing her luck, the Clinical Lead will pop round later to make sure that they’re not having a rave or some other ridiculous event. “Erm, I just mean she’s sleeping, she’s not feeling too good. Might be the same as what I have.”

“Right,” Connie returns, the disbelief evident in her tone. “In that case, I’ll just work three shifts consecutively without going home, shall I? That will be all.” She hangs up without saying goodbye, and Bea breathes a sigh of relief. Not that it’ll be a sigh of relief when she goes in on Sunday – or relief when she gets her paypacket, two shifts short.

“Thanks,” Alicia murmurs, having returned without Bea even hearing her. “I’ll smooth things over with Mrs B.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Bea exclaims, taking the proffered mug from Alicia. “I chose to lie, I’ll deal with the consequences.” She takes a sip before adding, “oh, you might want to put your phone on silent. I told Mrs B that you were asleep and not feeling too great.”

A watery half-smile slips onto Alicia’s lips for a moment before it disappears. “Thanks, Bea. You’re a good friend.”

Nothing seems quite good enough to say in response, so Bea says silent, instead looping her arm around Alicia’s neck and pulling her closer. Once again, Alicia doesn’t resist, instead breathing deeply – more deeply than earlier. It’s another suggestion that, perhaps, Alicia feels slightly safer than she did earlier.

“What do we do now?” Alicia murmurs, the scared twang returning to her voice. “How do…how do I go back to how I was before?”

_You don’t_ is what Bea thinks to herself. She doesn’t say it though. There’s no need to be cruel – especially as Alicia’s had enough patients in this situation to know what to do, what will happen, without Bea.

“I…when I was waiting for Mrs B to answer, I got a couple of numbers from the internet. Places to ring…for people in…this situation,” Bea replies hesitantly. Alicia swore her to secrecy, at least with regards to the department; perhaps this is a step too far, too.

Silence falls over the living room for almost five minutes and Bea’s on the verge of just babbling away about how it’s a stupid idea when Alicia says, “you know what, I think that’s a good idea.”

Bea breathes a sigh of relief, and feels a slight smile slipping onto her lips: Alicia wants to talk. That’s always a good sign.

“Right, okay, so it’s entirely up to you and what you want to do. And I’ll be there, if you want me to be there, whatever way but…”

“Bea,” Alicia interrupts, a little more firmly than she’s been since their first meeting this morning. “Just tell me the options. Of course I want you there.”

“Okay, so I’ve got a number you can just ring and speak to them here over the phone…or there’s one where you do that briefly, but then it gets…gets you a counsellor or someone you can talk to face-to-face.” Hesitating for a minute, Bea gets her phone out and brings up a website with different descriptors.

Alicia snorts. “It’s disgusting that this many services are needed,” she mutters, her tone filled with contempt. “Will this nightmare ever end?” She says this under her breath, her eyes trained on the website, and Bea isn’t sure if she’s meant to have heard it.

Pulling Alicia in closer, Bea whispers, “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I promise.”

For the first time, Bea thinks that Alicia at least marginally believes her.

…

Alicia falls asleep first on the sofa, a little after nine, still wrapped in Bea’s arms. The heating isn’t on, and the house is a little cool for early June, so Bea pulls one of the blankets off the back of the sofa and gently places it over Alicia’s sleeping body.

They spent the best part of an hour on the phone to the hotline, arranging a visit for early tomorrow morning.

Bea can’t sleep. There’s too much energy in her, too much frustration, too much anger at _him_. The one who didn’t understand why Alicia wasn’t herself. The one who tried to make a _joke_ about her sexuality. The one who plays games and undermines and never seems to recognise that you don’t throw stones in glass houses.

All she wants to do is grab a pair of boxing gloves, her punch bag and imagine that it’s Eddie McAllister’s face.

She’s halfway out of her position on the sofa, until she realises that to go punch would mean leaving Alicia. Which isn’t something she thinks she should do. Which isn’t something she wants to do.

So she settles herself back in on the sofa, her hand running gently over Alicia’s face, tracing her outlines, the other playing with the long, blonde hair across her chest. And she closes her eyes, wishing that everything will be better tomorrow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) this will only be a oneshot.


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